Ghosts
by sherlady
Summary: John Watson is dead, gone from the world of the living for good-at least, he thought. Trapped in a paranormal web, he finds himself inexplicably tangled up in the life of the consulting detective yet again, drawn to Sherlock even in the afterlife. But who knew being dead could make a man feel so alive. (Discontinued fic.)
1. Chapter 1

John was alone.

The sky was bruised nearly as much as the body had been. It had been quite a far fall, after all.

His chest tightened. A thin gust of wind ruffled his hair.

London stretched before him. It was a jumbled maze of scribbles and lines, of commonplace lives and steady hands hailing cabs. He felt as if he was hovering on the edge of existence, as if the city had long since abandoned him and forgotten his name. That was okay. He was just a watercolor silhouette bound to be washed away the next time it rained. When was the last time he had been a person? He couldn't quite remember. Then again, he couldn't quite remember a lot of things. The world had become one long, endless parade of marching faces with blank stares and reused names.

Frankly, he was done with being the shadow of John Watson.

He shivered in his black jacket and stepped silently onto the ledge.

If he imagined hard enough Sherlock was beside him, breathing and living and talking, his eyes flashing sharply and his hands gesticulating wildly. John grasped onto the image of him wrapped up in that old trench-coat that still smelled of raw cigarette smoke, the way his smile fell slowly across his features, but the breeze blew away the last few fragments of him.

John looked around himself. It was a lovely view, stuck up here in the clouds. But perhaps what made it lovely was knowing that this had been his last snapshot of the earth, that Sherlock's leather dress shoes had been exactly where his scratched oxfords now stood. He squeezed his eyes shut for a bare second to desperately latch onto his presence. But like the wind had washed away his scent, the rain had surely gotten rid of the shadow of him.

John heard his name cut through the air as a desperate shout, a bitter splatter. He ignored it.

The ledge was just wide enough for one, he noticed. How terribly convenient. He wished it was a little bigger, because then he could have joined Sherlock.

John heard his name again, that awkward, hateful, detached sound. He shifted on the ledge. He didn't acknowledge it. He didn't care to. His heart was nonexistent. He had left it on the pavement where the body had lain like a broken marionette.

John closed his eyes and steeled himself for what was coming. As a last will and testament, he reached out haphazardly in his mind for Sherlock's face, but it was fading, disappearing, falling into shadow year after year. A pang struck his heart. The world seemed to spin before him like a sick merry-go-round. He was going mad, separated from Sherlock by death, a boundary that could not be invaded. This was no war in Afghanistan.

John grasped onto that maddening smirk, the only shard that had survived the fall. He let it pierce him as he heard his name again. It shot through the thin air vividly, like a black jot of ink on white stationery. He realized he couldn't even remember the sound of Sherlock's voice.

Oh, God, no. He was slipping through his fingers.

The fall came tumbling back into his mind, like glasses clattering off the top shelf. John had promised himself he would never let Sherlock down. He had always said he would keep him safe. But by a strange twist of fate, he had stumbled and tripped when Sherlock had needed him most. He should have been able to save him-he was a damn soldier, after all-but how clearly he remembered standing there listlessly on the front line.

The ledge started to swirl before John's eyes as he passed his hand over his face. Fresh pain began flooding in through the broken pieces of himself, electrifying his mind, illuminating every corner of his shattered heart. He was a doctor, a useless doctor. Scars began to reopen. Every square inch of his body was alight with tragedy. His breathing came in short, ragged gasps.

Flashbacks plagued his mind. The blood was like a red burst of pain on canvas and he could do nothing to stop the flow. The blood-God, there was so much blood. John felt weak. What a wicked ending to a fairytale, the life drained from those brilliant eyes.

Grief poured into the empty hollow in his chest and he vehemently wished he was numb. Sherlock's blood was everywhere. He wanted the painless monotone, he wanted to forget, he wished he could dissolve into nothingness. He wanted to leave. But he couldn't get rid of the sight of the scarlet liquid dripping from his fingers.

John cast London one last glance, the wind rushing around him in a thin, cold hug. A shadowy shape was looking up at him from the street-was that Lestrade? Probably, he guessed, because no one else would bother calling his name. But it didn't matter. Nothing mattered.

He let in a sharp intake of breath and grasped onto a floating memory of Sherlock. Not the Sherlock striped in blood, lying broken on the ground, but John's warm, breathing Sherlock. For the first time he could see his face vibrantly, every blemish, the crinkles around his eyes when he smiled rarely, the curve of his jaw.

The blood jarred back into his memory. Another victim of another war.

And how sick John Watson was of battle.

He jumped.


	2. Chapter 2

John never quite imagined death like this.

The end came quick. It was a short, bitter burst of excruciating pain, splitting open his mind as he collided with the pavement. He remembered thinking about his last thought-shit, what was his last thought going to be?-but immediately his heart ceased ticking like a dying clock and he was dead.

Shit, he thought angrily. Shit was his dying thought.

John opened his eyes and got to his feet.

Immediately a realization slammed into him. He was staring at that same bruised sky. He was still in London. He was standing on the pavement, covered in-he glanced down and faltered. He stepped away from the body.

This is weird, John thought, furrowing his brow and kneeling beside the body. He held out his own hands-solid flesh-and prodded the broken shape, the blood like an ocean around his feet. It ran down the side of the dead John's face like painted rivulets, coloring the dull gray pavement.

Is my nose really that big? He leaned over to scrutinize the dead body, wondering if some glittering staircase was supposed to open up before him with a blasting trumpet fanfare. Or was he supposed to ascend to heaven on white wings? John snorted. With his luck, something horribly wrong had hijacked his dying process and his soul was now trapped on earth for eternity.

Sharp footfalls alerted him to the crowd congregating around him-er, well, the dead body. He glanced up. Screams rang through the air and frantic voices were sputtering into their phones as an ambulance skidded to a stop nearby. He scanned the wall of faces-distraught mingled on some, sympathy on many, sadness on others. He froze when he noticed Lestrade pushing through the crowd urgently. Guilt boiled in his stomach. That was me once, he thought. He reached out a reassuring hand and realized it was no use. He was invisible.

He swallowed heavily. Lestrade's voice was shaking as he gave out orders, the light in his eyes collapsing. John looked away quickly.

"He's dead," he heard Lestrade confirm. It was beginning to rain. He felt it on his skin, trickling down his fingers, splashing on his cheek. How could he feel? He was just a soul now.

"Let me through."

John started. That wasn't Lestrade.

"Please, he's my friend."

Did he still have a heart now that he was dead and gone? Whatever it was, it began to beat faster, thumping nervously in his chest. The rain picked up.

"Please."

He risked looking back. Lestrade was kneeling beside his body, grasping his wrist, the rain soaking his suit. Beside him knelt a man in a black coat. His back was to John. The rain had watered down John's blood and sent it swimming in puddles around the man's leather dress shoes, like red watercolors splashed down from the heavens. Suddenly everything was electrified to John.

Who knew that being dead could make a person feel so alive.

The man turned. Wet curls stuck to his forehead, his cheekbones sharp in the shadows. A crazy light gleamed in his eyes.

That couldn't be anyone but Sherlock Holmes.

John reminded himself how to breathe. His mind was an explosion of tangled thought and cries and angry revelations. He wanted to punch someone-Sherlock, if John had still been alive. But he found his utter shock and denial and complete bitterness to be drowned out by the sight of him living and breathing, standing before him one more. He was existing. John drunk in Sherlock's image, no blood spattering his brow, his dark hair falling over his eyes, his coat wrinkled and rustling around his thin frame.

"He can't be dead, Lestrade," Sherlock denied wildly, roughly taking the wrist from the inspector. He overlooked the body in a frenzy, his eyes soaking in every detail. "This isn't possible."

"Sherlock, it's no use. You can't solve this case. He's dead." Lestrade tried to pull him away. Sherlock shook him off.

"He's gone," Lestrade asserted, attempting to tear him away from the body. He succeeded in dragging Sherlock away from dead John as the ambulance workers rushed forward.

"Let me go!" Sherlock tried to twist away furiously, stretching out his hand towards John's body. "You've got it all wrong, that's John!" Lestrade struggled to keep him captive, fighting against his every move and arguing over his protests, as the workers lifted the body onto the stretcher.

"That's John!" Sherlock shouted, his voice cracking, as he fought violently. His eyes were a manic, shattered version of the brilliant eyes that had once been so alive when John was by his side. "Stop, let me go, that's John!"

"John is dead, Sherlock," Lestrade snapped. He shook him by the shoulders. "He's dead, and he's not coming back like you did." The sadness in his voice spiraled into bitterness.

"But he isn't dead." Sherlock's dark curls spilled over his eyes as he wrenched himself out of Lestrade's grip. A mad light shone in his eyes. He started in vain towards the ambulance, where John's body was, but Lestrade latched onto his arm.

"He's gone," he said quietly.

Sherlock stopped mid-step. He ceased resisting. His chest heaved as he stared after the ambulance, his lips parted slightly, a raindrop brushing against his cheek. "How can he be dead? John-that's John-my John-"

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

John's chest tightened. He wanted to rush forward and wrap his arms around Sherlock, breathe in the musty scent of a thousand books and thoughts and burnt-out cigarettes, feel the scratchy wool against his cheek.

But he couldn't.

The crowd was dissolving. Sherlock stood silently for a second, his back to Lestrade, the black coat John knew so well whipping in the wind as the rain splattered against the pavement. He turned slowly, emptily, and brushed the curls off his forehead. Something had slipped out of his eyes.

"He really is gone," Sherlock said simply. John had never heard his voice so quiet. It wasn't devoid like his had been; it was trembling with grief, with the sharp, black knife of pain. Moriarty was right. He did have a heart.

John didn't know how that bastard had managed to fake his death. He didn't even know what had possessed Sherlock to create this masquerade. But he did know one thing.

Sherlock Holmes was alone again.


End file.
